


It's Not the Humidity, It's the Heat

by Jo (jmathieson)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Deaf Clint, First Time, Hot Weather, M/M, Mission Fic, Requited Love, Safehouses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmathieson/pseuds/Jo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: "Trapped in a safehouse and are somehow forced to confess their feelings to each other."</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not the Humidity, It's the Heat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [epeeblade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/epeeblade/gifts).



"Yes. I understand. No, that's fine, we'll wait. Yes. These things happen. Supplies are perfectly adequate. Yes. No. Yes. Yes. Understood. Signing off."

Clint could only hear Coulson's side of the conversation, but it didn't sound good. He waited while Coulson bricked the disposable cell phone he'd made the call with, and then watched as Coulson tossed it with more force than necessary into the small metal garbage can in the corner of the room.

"The contact re-scheduled. His daughter is back in the hospital. New day for the meet is the twelfth. We'll get confirmation of the time and place the morning of." Coulson rubbed a tired hand across his face, and looked up, his face set in a resigned expression.

"Four days from now."

"Yes."

"And we don't have covers, because it was supposed to be a quick 12-hour in-and-out. And there's no point in backfilling covers for us now, for two white guys in the middle of Lahore, so we're stuck in this apartment for four days."

"Pretty much."

"Well, that sucks."

Coulson was too tired to even shrug. He was profoundly glad that he was here with Barton, not some other agent who'd rant and yell and get all pissy about the turn of events. 'Well, that sucks' would be Barton's entire comment on it, Coulson knew. For that one small grace, he was thankful.

"Right, so do you want Noodle Chicken or Chili Mac?" Barton asked, reading the labels on the stack of MREs in the cupboard of the tiny apartment.

"Please tell me those aren't the only two options."

"Let's see." Clint rifled through the stack. "Nope, there's also Cheese Tortellini and Beef Enchilada."

"Lovely." Clint glanced over when he heard the note of despondency in Coulson's voice. Coulson was tired. This was their third major op in five weeks, and Clint knew that Coulson had seriously considered taking them off the active roster rather than accepting this mission. But as happened too often, Clint was the best man for the job and Coulson... well, everything always worked out better when Coulson was his handler in the field.

Clint had slept on the flight from Heathrow, but he knew Coulson hadn't managed to. Despite his soldier's ability to fall asleep anywhere, the noise of no less than three screaming babies, not to mention the toddlers and small children running up and down the aisles (yes, even in Business Class), had meant that Phil had given up on trying to sleep after the first couple of hours. He had spent the 6-hour flight scrolling through the movie and music in-flight entertainment options instead.

Clint had grinned ruefully at him, switched off his hearing aid, turned his good ear towards the seat cushions, and fallen fast asleep.

"Is there any real coffee at least?" Coulson was trying for dispassionate, but Clint could hear the hint of desperation in his voice. He searched the cabinets, coming up with a petrified jar of what used to be Folgers instant coffee.

"Sorry boss," he said. "Look, why don't you get some sleep. I'll take first watch."

Coulson looked at his watch and then out the window at the night sky. Everything about the timing of this mission was bad. How soon it had to be scheduled after their last op; the fact that it was the middle of monsoon season in Pakistan; and now the delay. Phil hoped that it was a real issue, and not that their contact had gotten cold feet and was putting them off. He'd press for confirmation on that tomorrow. If the contact was too nervous, the mark would know... Phil stopped himself from sighing out loud, and turned to where Barton was still waiting for him to reply.

"Thanks Barton. Some sleep sounds good. Wake me in four hours."

"Sir, if you don't mind my saying, you look like shit. Take six, or eight. I slept on the plane. I'm fine."

Phil was tempted. Eight hours straight sleep would be heavenly. And he'd sleep soundly with Barton watching his back, he always did.

"Four hours, Barton," he said putting a little steel into his tired voice. "We need to do a full security check at sunrise."

"Okay, boss. I'll wake you as soon as the sun comes up."

The apartment was a tiny studio with a double bed shoved into one corner, a battered wooden table and two chairs by the only window, a counter with a stained sink and a decrepit hotplate to serve as kitchen, and a tiny bathroom with rusty fittings. As far as safehouses went, it was one of the worst Phil Coulson had ever been stuck in, and he'd been stuck in some pretty bad ones in his years at SHIELD.

He unselfconsciously peeled off his linen suit trousers and shirt (his tie and jacket had come off as soon as they'd closed the apartment door behind them, three hours ago), draping them over the rattan footboard of the bed. He folded the coverlet down and climbed under the sheet.

"I'll get the light for you, boss. Sweet dreams." Barton switched off the lights in the apartment and settled into a chair by the window. Phil's last thought, before he fell asleep, was to be grateful once again that he was on this op with Barton, who was perfectly content to sit silently and look out a window at a dark city for four hours while he slept.

The next two days were, in no uncertain terms, hell. They were as hot as hell, as frustrating as hell, as boring as hell, and as long as hell. The air-conditioner in the tiny apartment chugged away but seemed to do absolutely nothing to mitigate the temperature or the humidity. Barton and Coulson had packed for a quick, 12-hour in-and-out mission. Clint had an extra t-shirt, pair of socks, and clean underwear in his go-bag. Phil, similarly, had a clean shirt, pair of socks, and set of underwear in his carry-on. They did laundry in the kitchen sink at the end of their second day in the apartment. At the end of the third day, their 'laundry' was, if anything, wetter than it had been when they'd wrung it out and hung it up to dry. Clint had stopped wearing his t-shirt yesterday. This morning, when Phil had woken him at the end of his watch, Clint had climbed out of bed, taken one look at his pants, said,

"Fuck it."

and started doing his morning calisthenics wearing nothing but his form-fitting tactical boxer-briefs. He was half way through a set of crunches, twisting to the left and then right on each alternate crunch when he realized that Coulson was looking at him. Not overtly, of course. But Clint was very good at spotting the brief, sidelong glances that Coulson kept throwing in his direction. Clint was also very good at deciphering them, though he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

Coulson was looking. Appreciating. Possibly even coveting. There was no mistaking the set of Coulson's mouth or the heat in his eyes. Clint experimentally flexed his arms more than completely necessary on the next few reps. Coulson looked away, but Clint could see his tongue snaking out to wet his lips.

Clint's mind was churning. Coulson was straight. He was sure of it. He'd done an extremely thorough assessment, watching Coulson's reactions to people at the office and in the field and picking up every bit of gossip he could about Coulson's past relationships. There wasn't a hint of him being anything other than 100% straight, much to Clint's disappointment. But now...

Clint finished his crunches and rolled gracefully into a handstand, leaning his heels against the wall for balance (which incidentally made his back arch and put all his assets on prominent display). Clint started to do handstand push-ups. Slowly, but fluidly, breathing deeply with each rep. He also carefully kept his eyes front for the first few reps, before flicking the tiniest of glances in Coulson's direction. Coulson was resolutely looking at some paperwork that he had spread out on the table, but Clint knew that Coulson had excellent peripheral vision, and the way his jaw was working gave him away. That and the very slow, very slight shift of Coulson's left leg under the table. Clint looked carefully, and sure enough, spotted a distinct bulge in Coulson's tailored suit pants.

Clint finished his set and kicked off the wall. He hadn't yet decided what to do with this new piece of information: the fact that watching him work out made Coulson hard. Coulson might still be straight, or mostly straight, and having an inconvenient erection for reasons not really related to Clint's physique at all (thought Clint very much doubted that) or Coulson could be totally repressed, and currently quietly freaking out. Clint doubted that too - Coulson's expression had been that of a man fighting for self-control, not freaking out at a newfound revelation about his own sexuality.

Still, Clint hadn't yet decided how to play this. If he played it right, he might get something he wanted - had wanted for a long time and had always thought he had absolutely no chance of getting. Clint walked across the apartment to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. He stood in profile to drink it in large, satisfying gulps. His eyes flicked minutely sideways. Coulson was watching him out of the corner of his eye again, his jaw working.

'Time to go for broke,' Clint thought, and 'accidentally' knocked an MRE wrapper off the counter as he put his water glass down. He bent over to pick it up. As he straightened and put the wrapper back on the counter, Coulson said from behind him,

"Go put some clothes on Barton."

Clint turned.

"Aw, boss, it's too hot." He let a bit of a whine creep into his voice.

"Barton! Clothes!" Coulson's voice was sharp enough to cut steel. Clint hadn't heard him sound that annoyed since the last time a junior agent had fucked up badly enough to put his team in danger. Clint didn't let his shoulders fall into the defeated slump that they wanted to; instead he just crossed the room to where he'd left his pants and shirt. He pulled both on, his nose wrinkling at the state of the shirt, despite frequent and liberal applications of deodorant. Then he went and sat in the only chair available, the one across the table from Coulson.

Coulson's face was tinged with a hint of pink.

'Must have been a sexuality freak-out after all. That sucks. It can't be fun to find something like that out about yourself at age 45, especially not because of a colleague, a friend,' Clint thought. Suddenly he felt very bad for actively trying to provoke a response from Coulson.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said with genuine regret in his voice.

Coulson rubbed a hand across his face.

"It's okay. It's just that this mission is frustrating enough already without you flaunting something I can't have in my face like that." There was a strained pause. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that." Phil's ears went bright pink and he turned to look out the window.

Clint was reeling. Phil just didn’t say things like that. And between the way Clint could see a muscle in the side of his face twitching, and the blush, it seemed that Phil hadn’t meant to say it. Phil had almost certainly not meant him to know that he considered Clint ‘something he couldn’t have.’ But did that mean that Clint was something he wanted?

"Okay, so, first of all, I thought you were straight. I was fucking sure you were straight. And second of all, who says you can't have it. SHIELD doesn't have any fraternization regs."

"Ten years in the army under 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell.' I'm very good at hiding." Phil turned back to Clint. At least he could have this excruciating conversation face-to-face.

"But I've seen you look at women! Are you bi or something?"

"Kinsey 5."

"Kinsey 5 my ass! You ogle boobs! I've seen you ogling boobs!"

"When?"

"What?"

"When have you seen me ogle boobs?"

Clint stopped, and thought. Never at the office. Never. On missions, sometimes. When on missions? When Coulson was in plain sight. When he was sitting at a table in a cafe waiting to meet an informant or acting as a spotter. Clint said as much to Coulson.

"One of the easiest ways to spot a spy, or a lookout, or a guy who is waiting to meet secretly with his informant, is that the guy in question doesn't turn his head to look at a big rack or a nice ass when it goes by."

Clint nodded. Of course. Coulson blended in, looked un-assuming, it was his thing. He did exactly what everyone expected him to do, until he didn't.

"Um... right. Well, then, about SHIELD not having any fraternizations regs..."

"I'm not having sex with you just to scratch an itch, Barton. You'll have to wait until we get back from this armpit of a mission so that you can find yourself a fuck buddy or a hook-up." Coulson's words came out a lot more bitterly than he meant them to, and he felt a little bad when he saw the wounded expression on Clint's face.

Clint looked down at his hands. Coulson's words had stung. Yeah, so, okay, he slept around some. It didn't hurt anyone. His partners were always willing adults and he never pretended it was anything more than it was. Stress relief, a welcome change from his right hand and his fantasies. A warm body. Feeling good about himself for five minutes after a crappy mission.

That's not what he wanted with Coulson, though. He wanted more. He wanted...

"I don't... I... What if it's not just to scratch an itch? What if it's more than that?"

"Yeah, right. The Amazing Hawkeye, whose myriad bedroom exploits are told and re-told in the SHIELD cafeteria, who has slept with half the junior agents on base, who considers sex to be an amusing diversion when Dog Cops isn't on, wants 'more than that' with his balding, middle-aged handler. Pull the other one, Barton, it's got bells on."

"Fuck you, Coulson!" Clint stood up from the table, pushing his chair back abruptly enough to knock it over. "How the hell could you know what I want? Yeah, so I've had sex with a bunch of people. It's not like it ever meant anything. It's not like it could ever fucking mean anything, when I couldn't have the one person I actually wanted - the person I've been in love with for years - because I was sure he was fucking straight!"

Very slowly, Phil Coulson stood up. He took the two steps that put him right in front of Clint Barton. In his space. Looking into his eyes.

"Tell me then, Clint. What do you want?"

Clint's eyes were still flashing with anger. He bunched his fists by his sides, but he answered.

"I want sex, sure. But I want it with someone that I trust enough to fall asleep next to afterwards, instead of lying there and staring at the ceiling until I can sneak away. I want to be with someone who actually knows me – Clint Barton – not The Amazing Hawkeye. Who knows when my birthday is and that I like chocolate donuts and blue Gatorade. Who has seen me at my worst and for some fucked-up reason still seems to like me anyway. I want someone who I know is going to be there. Always. No matter what. I want someone to love me back just half as much as I love him..."

Clint wanted to turn away and hide after that confession, but Phil's eyes had him pinned.

"Let me tell you what I want," Phil said softly. "I want post-mission adrenalin-high sex and lazy Sunday morning sex. I want to fight for the covers in the middle of the night and lose. I want couch cuddles in front of bad TV on the weekends. I want someone to come home to at the end of a long day. I want forever, Clint, and I want it with you."

"But, how could you - " Clint started to say. Phil shut him up with a kiss. It started soft and gentle, but within seconds their mouths were open, tongues battling, hands grasping, bodies pressed close. One of Phil's hands was in Clint's hair, and one of Clint's hands was on Phil's butt, pulling their groins tight together.

Part of Phil's mind was screaming at him. The responsible, suit-wearing, Senior Agent part. Screaming at him that he shouldn’t be doing this in a safehouse in the middle of a mission with a co-worker who was technically his subordinate. Phil told that part of his mind to shut up. He'd wanted this – wanted Clint – for years. He'd never thought he had a chance. Now he was going to take the chance in both hands and, for once, to hell with the consequences. He was tired of pretending, tired of hiding, and tired of being alone. 

Phil started to back them towards the bed, but Clint broke off.

"Phil. We can't. What about keeping watch?"

"It's a safehouse. It's secure. No one knows were here. We don't need to keep watch."

"But for the past two days you've made us take alternate watches!"

"How the hell else was I supposed to distract myself from wanting to lick the sweat off your collarbone?"

"Fucking hell, Phil. Don't say things like that unless you mean them!" 

Instead of replying, Phil shoved his hands under Clint's t-shirt, running his palms up the sweat-slick skin and kneading the muscles of his back with strong fingers, before pulling the shirt over Clint's head.

"Fuck," Clint said and captured Phil's mouth again as he pulled them both down onto the bed, and then fumbled with the buttons of Phil's shirt. Phil straddled Clint and sat up,

"Let me," he said, unbuttoning his shirt and letting his eyes roam over Clint's face, neck, shoulders, arms, and chest as he did.

Clint moaned and tried to buck his hips up, but Phil sank more of his weight down, pinning Clint beneath him. That only made Clint moan louder.

"Fuck, Phil, I'm not going to last two seconds if you're going to indulge my fantasies like that."

"Oh?" Phil said with a wicked grin, "Tell me more."

"My number one jerk-off fantasy for years has been you on top of me, with your hands on my arms, pinning me down, while you fuck me as hard as you can."

"Well, that can probably be arranged, if you have condoms in your kit and we can find something to use as lube."

Clint pulled his go-bag out from under the bed with one hand and tried to start fumbling through it.

"May I?" asked Phil, looking a lot more calm and collected than he had any right to, sitting shirtless astride Clint's groin, his hard-on tenting his suit pants obscenely. He leaned over to take the bag out of Clint's hand and sat it on Clint's chest.

"Shaving kit?" he asked, raising one eyebrow.

"Yeah." Clint was trying to process the fact that Phil was actually going to fuck him. In a safehouse. In the middle of a mission. Okay, it wasn't actually the middle of a mission. They were on standby until tomorrow, when the contact was supposed to get in touch with the new time and place for the meet, but still... Clint watched as Phil fished the short strip of condom packets and a small, half-empty bottle of lube out of his shaving kit, tossed them onto the bed next to Clint's head, and then dropped the bag back on the floor.

'Fuck it,' Clint thought, 'If this is a dream at least I can get to the good part before I wake up,' and he reached for Phil's belt. His hands didn't shake. His hands never shook, but right now they wanted to. Clint unbuckled Phil's belt and unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. He spread the fly open wide and reached in with one hand, closing it around a thick, hard cock swathed in thin damp cotton. Above him, Phil moaned.

The next thing Clint knew, Phil had rolled off him and was shedding his own pants and underwear, and then grabbing the back of his neck to pull him in for a kiss with one hand, while the other wrestled with the button on Clint's jeans.

Clint batted Phil's hand out of the way and stripped off the jeans that he'd been wearing for barely five minutes. Phil's free hand returned and tugged at the band of his boxer-briefs. Clint pulled them off too, and his gasp was swallowed by Phil's mouth when Phil's hand wrapped around his cock and stroked, once, from base to tip.

"Fuck! Phil... God. I want you so bad." Clint heard the cap on the bottle of lube opening. He hiked one knee out of the way, giving Phil access. His brain nearly shorted out when he felt Phil's fingers probing gently but firmly, and Phil's lips brushing soft kisses along his jaw under his ear.

"Your birthday is June 18th," Phil whispered. "You like chocolate donuts and chocolate ice cream and chocolate milk." Between the fingers in his ass and the whispered words in his ear, Clint was melting into a puddle. Phil kissed his neck, nipped gently at his jaw, sucked a hickey into the soft skin just below his ear.

"You like blue Gatorade and Thai green curry and Red Velvet cake and almost anything that's purple."

Phil had three fingers in his ass now and was twisting and thrusting, driving Clint crazy.

"Phil, please. Fuck me, please."

Clint moaned as Phil slid his fingers out and positioned himself, thrusting in slowly.

"God, Phil. Yes. Yes." Phil steadied himself on his knees, and Clint wrapped his legs around Phil's back. Phil moved his hands, placing one and then the other on Clint's arms, his strong fingers wrapping around Clint's powerful biceps.

"Like that?"

"Yeah, just like that, exactly like that, Phil. Fuck me hard, Phil, please, hard."

Phil was more than happy to oblige, pulling out and thrusting back in hard, tightening his grip on Clint's arms as he did.

"Yes. God, yes, please more Phil, please."

With that encouragement, Phil set a punishing rhythm, and it didn't take long before he was at the edge. He moved one hand from Clint's bicep to his dick, and stroked in time to his sharp, fast thrusts.

"Come for me," Phil ground out between thrusts and Clint did, moaning his release as he spurted into Phil's hand. Phil fucked him through the aftershocks and it only took a couple more thrusts before he was coming himself, going taut and still for a moment, before sighing, and then collapsing on top of Clint. Phil's lips found Clint's ear again.

"I’m going to be here. Always. No matter what. And I love you with all my heart."

"Love you so much, Phil. So much for so long." 

Once Phil had pulled out and cleaned them both up a little, Clint rolled them over so that Phil was on his back and Clint could nestle into his arms. He put his head on Phil's shoulder, his hand on Phil's chest, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Selori for beta-reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.


End file.
